


The Weeping Detective

by InkyLoey



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, F/F, F/M, I am bad at frequent posting, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Weeping Angels - Freeform, Wholock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2018-11-13 01:24:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11174100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkyLoey/pseuds/InkyLoey
Summary: "What is it?""The statue. It was standing next to the pond earlier. It's... closer now.""It's been a long day, Sherlock. You probably just imagined it.""No, no. You don't understand. I notice these things. I notice everything. This statue has moved, John. I'm sure of it."





	1. Clara's Mission

"Run!"

Clara's lungs felt as if they were frozen but she kept taking shaky breaths, a shudder running down her spine every time she did so. Her eyes were closed, tears forcing their way through her eyelids and streaming down her damp cheeks. 

She could still hear the doctor's voice in her head.   
"Run!" It screamed sternly. "Run, Clara!" 

A sob escaped her chapped lips.

She could still see his face in her head.   
His skin was as pale as a ghost, and dark circles rested under his eyes, eyes that looked at Clara in such a worried manner. 

Clara's heart broke with each time she pictured him.

She saw him falling down the pitch black whole over and over again. She saw how his wrinkled hand held onto hers and she still knew how it felt when the warmth of his hands vanished as he let go. Her throat still hurt from when she screamed his name at the top of her lungs. She still felt the throbbing pain in her knees from when they had made contact with the stony floor. 

He was dead.

Clara shook her head furiously, trying to banish these thoughts, and wiped her tears away. Attempting to calm herself, she got up from the bench she had been sitting on, and started walking along a small, stony path. The Tardis had dropped her off in a park directly in the center of London. She knew it, having been there a couple of times as a child. She used to love going ice skating on the pond with her mother when it froze during winter. Clara smiled at the memory of her, but it quickly vanished as she realized that she had once again lost someone she loved once. Would it ever end?

Clara looked around, trying to determine what time she was in and buried her freezing hands in the pockets of her jacket. Judging by the snow covering the trees and various people wearing scarves and hats, it was winter. 

Okay, thought Clara, that's not too bad. It was autumn when I left. 

Clara kept walking on the path, passing the trees and park benches queued along it. Now that she had calmed down somewhat, Clara noticed a throbbing pain in her forehead. Rubbing it with the palm of her hand, she told herself that all of the crying or perhaps standing up too quickly had caused it. 

Or Voldemort, she chuckled to herself. 

Have you ever seen something while taking a walk or maybe going to school that looked just slightly out of place? As if it were something that didn't belong there but trying to fit in. It can be a rose bush in between daisies or, like in Clara's case, a blue trashcan in a park full of green trashcans. But not just any kind of blue, no, it was Tardis blue. 

Clara stopped dead in her tracks.  
The trashcan was standing to her left, next to a bench.   
She turned towards it with her gaze glued on the object. 

Could it be? No, no, that's impossible. He is dead - or is he?

Clara reluctantly stepped closer, her headache still present and dizzying her senses. She was standing right in front of it and, if she turned her head down, she would be able to see its contents. She played with the hem of her shirt, as her breathing became ragged.   
Out of the blue, she jumped back a few steps, her jangled nerves getting the best of her. She took a deep breath. 

Clara noticed a man with an umbrella jogging by, looking at her as if she was out of her mind. She offered him a sweet smile to which he replied with a rather expression that might, with a lot of imagination, have resembled a smile.

Calm down Clara, she told herself, it's probably just a blue trashcan, and nothing more. It might even be empty.

Though she didn't believe that. When you've travelled with the doctor, you tended to believe the impossible, even if the impossible was a possible message hidden in a Tardis blue trashcan. 

She sighed and closed her eyes before rushing over to the trashcan, her eyes still closed, and turned her head to the floor. Clara opened her eyes again. A newspaper. There was a single newspaper lying in the trashcan with nothing by its side.   
She reached down, grabbed the paper, and pulled it out, and straightened it before examining it carefully.

"December 20th, 2013."

it said in a tiny font at the top of the front page. Clara's eyes widened in shock. 

2013? But I left in 2014! 

The young woman groaned in annoyance, hitting the newspaper against her head as though it would magically help her situation. 

"Of course the Tardis drops me off a whole year too early," she muttered and sat down on the bench next to the trashcan.   
She quickly flipped through the pages, trying to find something, anything of importance.   
Luckily, no one was around to witness Clara's crisis.

What am I going to do now?  
I can't stay in London because I might run into my past self.  
I also can't go home and get money or clothes because I don't remember anyone breaking into my flat in 2013. 

All these thoughts and more came crushing on her as she skimmed through the newspaper.

Anyone able to see Clara now would see a distraught woman. They would see red, puffy eyes accompanied by dark circles under her eyes which made a hard contrast to her pale skin. They would see the ghost of a woman and if they knew her, it would break their heart.

Clara sniffled, trying to keep the tears from streaming down her face. The young woman noticed that some tears had already stained on the newspaper in her grasp - or were they snowflakes? She couldn't tell. She kept checking the pages.

Her hands started to feel damp due to her lack of gloves as she flipped a page over. Two men were to be seen on it, and Clara noticed the rather funny hat one of them wore, a small smile making its ways onto her lips.

“HAT-MAN and ROBIN:  
the web detectives”

It proclaimed in inky black letters above the picture. Clara, of course, had heard of them; Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective, and his army doctor John Watson. They were all over the papers these days, and she might have even snooped around on John's blog once or twice. 

Suddenly, something in the corner of the page caught her attention. Someone had written on it with a blue pen;

39-41 BARKING ROAD

A grin lightened Clara's features and a certain spark returned to her eyes accompanied by the sensation of something heavy being lifted off of her chest.   
She jumped off the bench with the newspaper still fast in her grip, "Oh doctor you really are brilliant!"


	2. The First Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do I really need to write a summary for every chapter just let life surprise you for once

Rays of the early rising sun fell on Sherlock's marble like skin as he walked alongside John, who seemed a bit groggy with his grayish hair shimmering in the sun.   
It had only been half to six in the morning when they had started their walk, now the sun was finally beginning to rise. While John didn't really mind getting up so early, he had to do that every day during his army days after all, he still wasn't too pleased about it seeing as he had been kept awake by Rosie all night. She was eight months old now, so she didn't start crying in the middle of the night anymore, she just had nightmares. They didn't really know where they came from, though Sherlock had forced John to take Rosie to another doctor apart from himself. None of those doctors turned out to be of any use (John was partly glad about that).   
Anyway, Sherlock thought it would be a good idea to give the currently sleeping Rosie to Mrs Hudson and take John out for a relaxing walk, away from the stress and worries. Sherlock had made it his sort of job to look out for the doctor and his daughter after the whole story with Eurus, and it earned him a lot of appreciation from John. 

That was what brought the two Baker Street boys to this certain park at this certain time. 

"I forgot how nice silence is," remarked John as they walked through the park.  
There were rows of beautifully green and blooming trees, sometimes parted by benches or trash cans, along each sides of the path they were on.

Sherlock chuckled. "Me, too, when was there ever silence at 221b?"

John looked at Sherlock with thoughtful eyes. The detective had changed so much in these past months. Of course, he was still a genius and overall interesting person, but he had gotten more sentimental. He didn't stop himself from showing that he actually cared for people, and also started acting like a father with Rosie. It was weird and unusual for Sherlock, but John didn't mind. He had always known that Sherlock cared for him, so it didn't matter whether he was expressing it freely or not. Though, he loved seeing that Rosie and him got along so well. 

"Do you think we should go back? I want to be with Rosie when she wakes up from another nightmare," asked John, glancing worriedly behind his shoulder.

Sherlock sighed dramatically and stopped walking. "Alright, you won't stop worrying anyway."

John rolled his eyes with a slight smile playing on his lips, as they turned around to go back to their flat. John was about to make a remark about him being too worried, when Sherlock suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. 

"What is it?" asked John, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

Sherlock's gaze was plastered onto a bunch of stone statues in front of them, he looked upset. Though there was a hint of curiosity in his brilliant eyes.  
"That statue," he pointed at an angel out of stone that was standing about 10 meters away from them, "It has moved since the last time we passed it."

John snorted unamused, "Yes, very funny, Sherlock. Now let's go home."

John took Sherlock's sleeve and attempted to drag the detective with him, but Sherlock refused to move. It was as if he had become a statue himself, the upset look etched into his features.

John sighed as he threw his arms up, "Fine. Let's say you're not actually kidding me. I'm sure you just imagined it, it's still pretty early in the morning and you're just as sleep deprived as I am."

Truth be told, John was starting to be concerned about Sherlock. He looked truly mortified, as if he couldn't believe his senses and yet he was sure of what he was seeing. It reminded the army doctor of the argument they had during the 'Hounds of the Baskervilles' case. Sherlock had been a mess and John truly dreaded that happening again.

"No, John. You know that I notice those kind of things, I notice everything. I am certain that the statue has moved. It was standing closer to the pond earlier," Sherlock protested.  
His temper was slowly getting the best of him as he raised and hardened his voice towards the end. 

His anger tore him out of his trance and he turned to look at John, his gaze leaving the angel. The army doctor looked back at him, his soft eyes meeting Sherlock's frustrated ones. 

"I'm sorry," said the detective, his tensed body relaxing almost immediately. "I just... I was so su-" 

He stopped himself mid sentence when he looked at the angel again. His heart skipped a beat. He was staring directly into its dead, stony eyes. It had moved again. An icy shudder ran down Sherlock's spine. Both of the men's breaths were now ragged with fear and neither of them dared to move or even blink. 

Millions and millions of theories flooded Sherlock's mind, but he never catched a single one of them. It was like they were slipping through his fingers, his fingertips brushing them as he forgot. Never had the infamous consulting detective been at a loss of ideas, but in this very moment he was paralyzed by fear. 

John's palms were sweaty but he was too afraid to even notice that. The statue had moved. Why did Sherlock always have to be right about everything?   
The army doctor has had multiple near death experiences, he had seen the horrors of the war with his own eyes, and yet, if you asked him today, he would tell you that this was the most terrifying moment of his entire life.   
His gaze was fixed on the stone angel, he studied its face, and desperately tried to find some sort of human feature in it. But there was none. Its eyes looked dead and its teeth didn't even look animalistic, they looked like they belonged to a monster. Its hands were positioned like claws, ready to scratch your eyes out any second. The angel's appearance made John's mouth grew dry. Weren't angels supposed to be good?

John swallowed before he whispered with trembling lips, "Why isn't it moving?"

Sherlock, who seemed to have finally come to his senses, answered in an equally silent voice, "I... I believe it can only move when we aren't looking at it. It's just a theory, though..."

If he hadn't been so full of fear, John would've definitely sighed at his companion's uncertainty, for he knew that when Sherlock Holmes was being modest, something of great severity must have happened. 

"What do w-" 

"-BOOM!" 

A loud explosion to their right, followed by a cloud of smoke spreading everywhere interrupted the army doctor. What the hell?  
The next series of events flew by in a flicker, John had still problems recalling everything.   
After they had heard a loud explosion,  John noticed the distorted shadow of a figure leaning against a tree far away from the scene to their left. From what he could make out, he believed it to be a man. Though, he told himself that this had simply been an illusion created by his with smoke clouded mind.   
Then his attention snapped elsewhere. A short woman emerging from the shadows, and also the source where the explosion had come from, walked towards them. As she stepped closer, John saw that she was holding giant gun. It looked very modern and he couldn't recall having seen it during his time in the army. She had short hair, that was all he could see through the thick fog.  
Suddenly, the woman pointed the gun at them. A sort of buzzing sound accompanied by a blue light came from it. The light grew bigger and brighter as the sound got louder. The next thing John remembered was being pushed to the side and the cold, wet feeling on his temple as he made contact with the ground. Sherlock had gotten them out of the line of shot and probably saved both of their lives.  
But John didn't have time to thank him as they got distracted by a loud crash coming from where they had been standing before. It sounded like a pile of stones tumbled to the floor. 

Silence.

A minute passed and no sound, apart from the two men's heavy breaths, was heard. 

They waited another minute, the fog was starting to clear up. 

John looked lifted his head, Sherlock was laying next to him, and let his gaze scan the area. There were no angels or people in sight, so John turned his head to look at Sherlock. 

"Do you see anything?" he whispered. The detective could feel John's breath on his skin. He shook his head, no.

Sherlock had his arm protectively around John as they tried to sit up as quietly as possible, still careful not to attract attention to them.   
Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed and a worried expression made its way on his face, as he noticed blood on John's temple. John hadn't paid any attention to it but was looking at Sherlock, a heavy feeling in his chest when he saw the look on his face.   
The detective reached out, gently grabbed John's jaw, and tilted it to the left. John must have had gotten hurt as Sherlock had tackled him to the ground. 

"What are you doing?" John croaked, not daring to move while Sherlock examined his wound.

They heard cautious steps coming closer. The detective immediately withdrew his hands as both of their heads turned to the source of the sound.  
The fog still hadn't cleared up entirely, so they only saw a blurry figure with a blaster walking towards them. Sherlock quickly got to his feet and then helped John up, whose gaze was glued onto the person in front of them.

Sherlock noticed a pile of gray stone laying mere meters away from them. The angel!, thought Sherlock, the blast must have destroyed it. 

"Mr Holmes and Watson, I presume?"

They had heard the strict, female voice shortly before its owner stepped into the e light.  
A rather short woman with brown hair at shoulder length and matching brown eyes that reminded John of a doe, was stood before them. Sherlock noticed that she was wearing some sort of leather armor with a small badge on her chest that spelled 'DEA' in clear, navy blue letters. Though he had read many books about modern and ancient armors, Sherlock didn't know which organization this one before them belonged to.   
Sherlock tried not to show it, but he felt doubt tugging at his confidence, and it was driving him mad. Why didn't he know?  
Why didn't he know what was happening? He always knew. 

He heard John clear his throat next to him. "Yes, that's us, but who are you? What's the matter with these statues? How do you know our names and what do you want from us?"

Sherlock noticed that John's entire body was trembling, as their shoulders brushed against each other.   
The strange woman smiled to herself, what made her seem a lot friendlier. Though, the two men were still cautious around her, seeing as their line of work required a lot of vigilance

"I'm a new client, and I need you to follow me before they come back."

There was a certain urgency in her voice that made John shoot Sherlock a wary look; surely nobody with a sane mind would agree to this. As their eyes met, the detective only offered the tiniest of smirks in return, causing John to bite back his own smirk as well. One of them forgets his pants to the Buckingham palace and the other one blogs about it, why would the idea of them being sane even occur to anyone? 

But, before they agreed to what would turn out to be quite the adventure, Sherlock needed to do something. It was nothing unusal for the detective, nor was it anything that couldn't be done in a matter of seconds, but, it was of importance. Sherlock's hawk like gaze travelled over the woman, while the gears in his mind were turning and meshing together radiantly; he was deducing her. You see, Sherlock has stood before numerous of criminals, each one more dangerous and wicked than the other, and he usually managed to deduce something about them. He was excellent at what he did. 

Of course, not all of his deductions were of importance and yes, now and then he missed stuff. Five seconds ago, there had only been one woman whom he hadn't been able to deduce. The woman. But that was only at first and he did beat her in the end. So, why couldn't he deduce a thing about this person who was now apparently his new client?


	3. The arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for not updating this in such a long time! I'm trying to write more frequently now, but I always seem to be busy. :')  
> ~Loey

"You can speak now," said the unknown woman shortly after checking her phone. 

After they had agreed to her offer, she ordered them not to say a word until she would allow them to do so. This was followed by a chain of events that included planes, cars, and numerous messages to Rosie's newly arranged babysitter. (That was before Sherlock got annoyed by John's antics and took his cellphone away) 

However, they ended up in some sort of jungle. Sherlock suspected it to be the jungle on Tioman island, which was located in Malaysia, but he couldn't be too sure seeing as they had gotten blindfolded a couple of times, and also because it was already dark outside.

"Well, you still haven't told us your name," John pointed out, ducking under a low hanging branch.

Sherlock chuckled. "Her name is Clara Oswald. Now tell me, how can you be here and at the information evening of your school at the same time?"

John wiped sweat off his forehead and swatted a mosquito that had landed on his wrist, the humid climate in combination with several annoying insects weren't really agreeing with him. They, and by they I mean Ms Oswald, had made him wear one of those ridiculous safari hats as well. This, and the fact that he had quite visible sweat stains under his armpits and around his neck, made him feel like an old man on holiday. The only thing missing was some low quality camera. 

"I heard that you are smart, but you can't possibly deduce my name, so tell me first how you figured it out," Ms Oswald replied, seeming more amused than offended or impressed. She didn't seem to sweat at all for some reason.

John walked closely behind Ms Oswald and Sherlock, who were now walking next to each other, and paid attention to their conversation. Even after all those years, he still liked to hear Sherlock's deductions.

"I took a picture of you and sent it to my brother," Sherlock answered promptly, leaving Clara surprised at the simpleness of his actions. John snorted in the back. 

"I will explain everything to you when we have arrived at the base, which will be shortly by the way," Ms Oswald started walking at a faster pace thus she wasn't walking alongside the detective anymore, but he picked up her speed and quickly caught up with her.

"What does DEA stand for?" he asked, knowing that she wasn't open for answering their questions but asked anyway. 

Clara sighed. "It stands for 'the Doctor's extraterrestrial agency'." 

Sherlock paused for a second, letting the new information sink in. Extraterrestrial? Do they mean aliens? At first, the detective abandoned the idea, but now after he had seen moving statues, he wasn't too sure anymore. He wasn't sure of anything, actually. 

"Who is the doctor?," piped up John behind them. 

Ms Oswald's eyes were directed straight ahead as she said, "We're here." 

John was able to make out glimpses of grey, smooth rocks hidden behind the lianes as a weird smell crawled up his nose, making him scrunch it in disgust. It smelled like in an underground car park. But the smell was soon pushed to the back of his mind when the entire building was revealed to him. 

His mouth was wide agape; before him stood a monstrous facility. Edgy rocks spiked into all directions with flat platforms positioned directly beneath them, some of which had furiously flashing lights in all forms and colours around them. People were hurrying all over the large place, some of them carrying barrels, the most colourful food or weird looking computers. No wait, John's eyes widened as he looked closer, not all of them were people. Some of them had blue skin with round patterns on them or look, there was someone with green spikes coming out of their back! John squeaked and tumbled back into the mess of lianes.

Sherlock's hawk like gaze was scanning the area with a combination of confusion, curiosity, fear, and surprise. How? How could this be? Sherlock had never cared about anything beyond the earth, he didn't even care about the solar system! But now? Did those... those creatures come from another world? Were they products of mutation experiences on earth? How didn't he know? He usually knew. 

The detective turned to Ms Oswald who was standing next to him, studying his reaction with a smirk while John made an effort to get up in the back. 

"Tell me," said Sherlock, "tell me everything there is to know."

His gaze rested upon her in awe, an emotion that John had never seen on his beloved detective before. 

Ms Oswald smiled. "Follow me." 

***

As they made their way down to the entrance, John let his gaze and thoughts wander a bit. How did this statue move? Were there more? There must be, Ms Oswald wouldn't have known how to the defeat them if she didn't have any experience with them. He had gone over the whole statue experience many times, but failed to find a plausible explanation for anything so far. Sometimes, just sometimes, John wished to be as smart as Sherlock. He was so tired of seeing the world in a blur while Sherlock saw it all so clear, it felt like they were underwater and Sherlock was the only one able to breathe. But in moments like this, John reminded himself of something the consulting the detective had once said; I see everything, John, that is my curse.

His curse. What's a curse? A curse is a prayer or invocation for harm or injury to come upon anyone. Now if one of the smartest people on this planet says their intelligence itself is a curse, then he was probably right. It made John think more and more about the downsides that Sherlock's brilliance brought with it. For instance, sometimes you might get to know things you never wanted to know in the first place. Like that your loved one is cheating on you or maybe you figure something about someone close to you out that will make it hard for you to look at them in the same way you did before. Sometimes John was afraid of that happening with him and Sherlock, even though John hadn't done anything bad that his partner in crime didn't know about.

John's thoughts came to a halt when they stopped in front of what looked like an entrance to a space ship from some classic sci-fi movie. It was round and its metallic silver made a great contrast to the black stones that framed it. The army doctor noticed fine navy blue circles and lines that spread all over the door, though what he found to be a bit odd was their arrangement. They weren't symmetrical like you would expect decorative engravings to be, unless they weren't just decorations but symbols.

Oh just listen to yourself, John told himself internally, you're just being paranoid now. 

The blogger walked a few steps forward so that he was now standing right next to Sherlock and got a better view of what was happening in front of him. Ms Oswald took out a small white card from the pocket of her uniform and slid it through a slit right next to the door, causing the later to drive to open all the way to the left until there was only a round whole in the black stone. 

Through the whole was a long, white corridor with another round door at its end. Ms Oswald stepped forward with her head raised high in confidence, the two baker street boys followed her closely and John only looked back when the door closed behind them. There was no going back now. Once again, they stood before a silver metallic door, but this time there was a blue screen next to it instead of a slit.

Suddenly, a young, excited looking man in a white lab coat appeared on the screen. His smooth skin had the same beautiful shade as the black coffee John loved to drink every morning and his brown eyes shone with kindness.

"Oh how delightful!," he exclaimed with a bright smile, "you've finally found them, Clara." 

Clara grinned proudly. "I have. Do you mind letting us in, Noel?"

Sherlock and John shot each other wary looks, but walked through the now opened door anyway.


End file.
